


peregrine

by carryfire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 15x20, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:00:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27695927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryfire/pseuds/carryfire
Summary: Dean stops by Cas and Jack's.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean & Cas & Jack
Kudos: 9





	peregrine

**Author's Note:**

> [25/11/20] ...jossed by the Spanish dub? Possibly. Jesus Christ.

Dean Winchester wasn't scared of death. He wasn't scared for himself, as a rule. But he was scared for his brother, and when he came to the road that crossed from death to the other place, he looked back.

He knew he couldn't stay. No matter how wrong it felt to leave Sam, Dean knew that he had to do it. That was it: his death. His first, and most likely last, chance at a rest in peace. He wasn't fucking it up.

But it did not give him much peace, the choice to keep moving. Why was there a choice? Why did he remember?

The road went on through wild summer fields until it reached The Roadhouse.

Bobby was there, sat out on the porch with a crate of beer, completely undisturbed.

It took Dean a while to find his voice.

"So," he said at last. "I made it to Heaven."

"Yep."

He dropped into the waiting chair, and took the beer Bobby opened for him.

"Doesn't feel like it," he said.

"Well," Bobby gave him a look. "That kid of yours made some changes."

"Right." Dean had not thought of Jack as a kid of his - not in a while now. He took another swing of his beer. It was crap, but familiar, and he could hold on to familiar.

"You met him?" he asked Bobby, curious.

"Met him..." Bobby scratched his beard. "It ain't the right word. He's around. They have a place over yonder," Bobby said, nodding towards the mountains rising before them. "He and Cas do."

Dean stilled. "Cas is - here?"

"Sure he is." It sounded as if Bobby meant to comfort him, like you would comfort a child. "Your boy got him out."

"Good," Dean said. "That's - yeah."

He downed the beer, and put the empty bottle on the table. When he looked again, the bottle was gone, as if it had never been there.

He stared at the empty spot. "What the..."

Bobby chuckled. "You get used to it." Dean shook his head. He didn't think he would.

"Look up," Bobby said.

When Dean did, Baby was there, shiny and perfect.

It felt real when he touched it. The letters he and Sam carved all those years ago - they were there. He felt their sharp edges with his fingers. When he turned back, Bobby was still out on the porch, the crate of beer still full.

"I'm not going anywhere," Bobby said.

"Okay. I'm gonna..." Dean gestured towards Baby, and the road that went past the Roadhouse.

"You do that. I'll be here."

Dean got inside the car, and started the engine. He couldn't tell the name of the song playing on the radio, but he knew that it had always been his favourite. It filled him with uncomplicated delight.

He sped up. Baby took it, no problem. The road ran straight ahead, and the mountains rose closer and closer.

Bobby didn't tell Dean where Cas and Jack's place was, exactly, but it should be easy to find them. All he had to do was wait until the way showed.

He wondered what they were up to, a God and an angel, here in Heaven. Jack, when they last saw him, made it sound very hippy-ish. Dean didn't get it, how it worked. He pictured an office, and loads of paperwork. Cas with a stapler. Jack spinning in a desk chair. Dean would just drop by and say hi. Ask them if they want donuts, or something.

The road curved to climb the mountain, cutting into the slope. Dean kept an eye out for signs.

Just before he began to worry he had missed it, he saw a dirt road on his left. He turned. The road became more narrow as he went, the crowns of the trees closing over him, the way filled with shivering shadows of leaves. Soon he had to stop the car: he would continue on foot, or not at all.

Dean never left Baby out in the wild like that. But he figured he didn't need to worry about birdshit or slashed tires in Heaven.

The path was wide enough he didn't feel trapped, but not more. There was wind in the trees. Animals, which Dean couldn't see. Birds, and larger things, moving through the woods. He reached to his back-pocket. Of course, it was empty. No knives in Heaven, either.

The path continued upwards. Dean was sure it would be only a moment before he felt his heartbeat pick up. Only a moment. Then, the path turned even and stopped.

He came to the edge of a long glade resting between the slopes as if cupped in a giant hand. Far on the other side, there was a bright glimmer. Dean could not make out what it was. It trembled, as if alive, but when he came closer, he realized that it was only light on the water: a surface of a small lake.

There was a house on the shore of the lake and a row of painted bee hives next to it. A jetty. At the end of the jetty sat Cas and Jack, legs in the water, fishing rods poking over their heads. Cas didn't have his trenchcoat on - only a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt, matching Jack's. Every now and then, one of them would catch a fish, and Cas would ease it off the hook, and release it back into the water.

"Hey!" Dean called to them stepping on the jetty. They turned - and God, they had matching sunglasses, too.

"Dean!" Jack got up and walked over to him. For a moment, it seemed that he would go in for a hug, but then the moment was over, and he didn't. Dean clapped his arm, and that was that.

"Jack," he said, glancing at Cas, who was watching them from behind his sunglasses with an easy smile.

"Do you like it here?" Jack asked.

Dean cleared his throat, and looked at him again. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, it's great. You did good."

Jack beamed. "Okay," he said. "You want to get to fishing." It wasn't a question, but Dean figured that Jack would know things like that now. He nodded.

"You know where I am if you need me," Jack spoke, Dean guessed, to Cas.

When he left, Dean took his place on the jetty. He reached down to take his boots off, but they were already gone, and his jeans were cuffed. Whatever. Slowly, he dipped his feet into the water. It was much warmer than a mountain lake had any right to be, but Dean was kind of expecting that. He picked up the fishing rod and cast the reel.

"So," he spoke when it became clear Cas wasn't going to. "What's up with the outfit?"

"It's my day off."

"Day off what?"

Cas sighed. "It's difficult to explain."

"Humor me, man."

Dean felt Cas shift next to him. He kept his eyes on the water, blindingly bright in the sun.

"Jack and I - together with the remaining angels - we make Heaven."

"Okay," Dean said, in a tone meant to signal that he was ready for Cas to hit him with the metaphysical bullshit.

"You can't make Heaven once. There are always more souls coming. You have to make it over and over again. It's..." Cas paused, as he always did before coming up with the least helpful point of comparison. "Well, it's not unlike sourdough bread that way."

Dean let out a snicker, but Cas still talked him through the metaphor, and how it related to Heaven's make-up. Dean thought that it would not have been so very different if Cas were telling him about a new church he was going to: ordinary stuff that you talk over a cup of coffee in the morning, or after dinner.

They used to have these talks. Dean used to have that. A memory of shame passed through his mind. Shame at how much he cared, at how much joy it gave him to pour Cas that cup of coffee, or make him wear a stupid hat. Shame at what he felt when he saw Cas with Jack. It did not feel right, to care so much for anybody that wasn't Sam. But Dean did, and there were times he felt he would burst if he didn't do something.

He didn't. Or, if he did, it was always too little. Like the mixtape. It was such a small thing. Dean was sure Cas would listen to it, carefully, and tell Dean it reminded him of, who knows, music he had heard in Mesopotamia three thousand years ago. Dean smiled at the thought. But the point was - he didn't think Cas got what the point was. That he made Dean feel like a balloon about to pop, and that the mixtape - it took only a little bit of the air out.

And then - Cas was _gone_ , and Dean - Dean had to get up, and take care of things. And he did, and he did his best, but it meant he had to keep it all in, or put it elswhere - into Sam, into the hunt, because if he didn't - he wouldn't know how to keep moving, if he didn't. So he took care of Sam, and went on hunts, ate too much pie, drank too many beers, and fussed over his dog.

And now - Cas was right next to him, and Dean couldn't look at him, because -

A fish pulled at the reel. Dean got it out, and looked around for a bucket - then, remembered that Jack and Cas didn't use one.

"Let me," Cas said, and Dean passed the fish into Cas' hands. Very gently, Cas teased the hook out of its mouth, and slipped the fish back into the water. For a brief moment, its pale shape was visible under the surface, and then it wasn't. Dean stared into the empty space it left.

Cas was right next to him.

"I," Dean started. "I wanted to say I'm sorry." He couldn't look at him.

"Dean. I chose this."

"Well, I'm sorry that you had to. I'm sorry that I let you. You and," his voice failed him. "You and Jack."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Cas raise his hands to his face, and take the sunglasses off. He folded them, and put them away. Dean wondered dumbly if they would disappear, too.

"I'm here," Cas said. "Jack is here. Time here is different, but it's still time. Our story isn't over yet."

"What does it mean?"

"It means you still have choices to make."

Dean nodded. "Alright." He closed his eyes. He listened to the water beating softly against the jetty.

He thought about the house on the shore of the lake, and about Jack there. Jack's room. Cas' room. The kitchen. The table where they shared their meals. The box of paints they used to paint the bee hives. Dean wondered if they went on hikes in the mountains, if they had the equipment. A tent. Sleeping bags. Whatever people took on hikes when they weren't tracking a wendigo.

He also thought about Baby, abandoned in the middle of the woods. The empty road. The place it went from, the dark barn and Sam.

"Cas," the word barely left his mouth. "Can I stay here?"

He opened his eyes, and forced himself to look. Cas was watching him, as he always did.

"Of course you can."

It felt as if he was pierced again, but this time it was only air that went out. Light and unstable, he collapsed into Cas, and Cas held him until he could get up again.

**Author's Note:**

> 'Peregrine' is the word Dante uses to describe his role in the Divine Comedy: a pilgrim, or a wanderer, but also a bird, rising to a higher understanding inspired by his love for Beatrice.
> 
> SPN sideblog is saunzguerdon @ tumblr


End file.
